Alien Species in the Garden Centre

I'm never sure if I'm in a goldfish bowl looking out, or if the world is a goldfish bowl and I'm looking in. The usual answer is both or either. 

Garden centres these days are more like corporate cafes and household goods supermarkets. There are usually one or two people picking up blown over plants outside (staff), but the main action is in the tea room, where expensive cakes fail to clog the throats of roaring masses enjoying the drum roll of a corrugated tin roof. However, our local one is comparatively small-scale, and tranquillity can still be found in an enclave of Italianesque garden furniture, wind chimes, and Americano coffee.

This is where I was.

Although it was chilly outside and I was alone, it wasn't five minutes before a tremulous trickle of fellow sheep deserted the bedlum inside and came out to join me. Social psychology and anthropology are embarrassingly correct on these occasions. Yet, there is always room too for bizarre variations....

The first couple resembled fairground fortune tellers and spent their entire stay staring across at me as though I had a demon perched on my left shoulder, or the grim reaper was poised for action behind me. The next couple were well dressed and had obviously arrived by car, but they shared one cup of coffee between them. Then, an obese bald-headed man in a grubby football shirt and sagging shorts adopted a rotating position in the centre, apparently mystified that satnav had brought him here instead of Wembley stadium.

The tour-de-force was yet to come. 

A satanic black figure dressed in full riot gear, including helmet and dark visor, began wandering around the plants. He stayed for about ten minutes and then departed - his search for triffids and similar man eating plants seemingly unsuccessful.

I returned to my cold coffee.

And wondered.